“I was merely concerned for their safety,” Ryan grinned, then looked back at the photos of the Gilberts. “Generally, they operate an ‘open-door’ policy because they employ so many staff who are constantly coming and going during working hours. Only a small number have keys to the house but they tend to leave the main door unlocked anyway, except after ten o’clock when they lock up for the night. The crime rate is extremely low around here.”
“Can’t see your average burglar getting away with a smash ‘n’ grab in that fortress of a place,” Lowerson agreed. “They’d need a battering ram and a fork-lift truck.”
That got a few laughs around the table and even brought a smile to Yates’s face.
“Moving on to David Quibble, the conservation manager.” Ryan indicated the next picture on his line-up, taken of a smiling man in his mid-fifties with endearingly crooked teeth, glasses and wiry grey hair.
In short, he was a living stereotype of the average historian.
“In his statement, he tells us that he went home to his house in Morpeth at around five-thirty. He didn’t see anybody else in the staff room and, although he remembers seeing Alice’s car still parked in the staff car park, he didn’t think much of it because he didn’t tend to micromanage or disturb her while she was engrossed in her work.”
“Convenient,” Phillips snorted. “Which other cars did he see in the staff car park, out of interest?”
“The housekeeper’s car was still there, obviously, as was Charlotte Shapiro’s. Martin Henderson’s BMW too, since he has the estate manager’s cottage within the grounds and it’s more convenient to keep it there, or so he tells me.”
Ryan blew out a long breath.
“All of that assumes Quibble is telling the truth, but it seems to be borne out by what the others say.”
Just then, they heard the front door opening and Phillips’ superior nose detected the scent of calorific goods even before Anna stepped into the kitchen, carrying two enormous paper bags full of Chinese takeaway.
“Anybody hungry?”
They fell upon the food like a pack of starving hyenas.
*
“Lad, I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again. She’s too good for the likes of you.” Phillips dabbed soy sauce from the side of his mouth and gave Ryan a sideways glance.
“She’s one in a million,” the other agreed, looking across to where she chatted with Melanie Yates, already helping to put the other woman at her ease.
“If it were left to you, we’d all waste away to nothing.”
It was Ryan’s turn to give his sergeant a sideways glance.
“No immediate fear of that,” he drawled.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?”
Ryan grinned, then checked his watch. It was almost six-thirty and he needed to move things along.
Anna caught the action and began to stand up.
“Well, I’ll leave you all to it,” she said, blowing them a kiss.
Yates watched Ryan’s face soften as he waved Anna off and wondered what it would feel like to have somebody look at her with even a tenth of that affection.
*
“We’ve covered the first four suspects on my list, so let’s move on to mug shot number five.” Ryan gestured toward the photographs with a prawn cracker.
“Martin Henderson is the new estate manager. He gets a cottage as part of the job and free rein to swagger around the estate,” Ryan couldn’t resist adding. “He says he didn’t see Alice Chapman all day, except in passing sometime during the morning as they were all assembled to speak to the police and consent to a search of their lockers.”
Ryan paused and took a bite of the cracker.
“He further states that he was attending to his agricultural duties throughout the afternoon on the Home Farm,” he referred to the farm owned by the estate, some five miles yonder. “He went directly home, without stopping into the main house, at five o’clock or thereabouts.”
“Nobody can substantiate his whereabouts because he lives on his own and didn’t run into any timely passers-by,” Lowerson put in. “Although the farm staff agree he was there until four-thirty.”
Ryan crunched the last of his cracker and nodded at the picture of a smarmy-looking man in his early sixties, leering at the camera as if he were a matinee idol.
“At this point, Yates, let me reiterate my words to you about objectivity,” Ryan said. “For example, I am presently thinking that Martin Henderson is one of the greasiest little buggers I’ve met in a good long while, but it would be wrong of me to rely on personal dislike because that leads to bias.”
He leaned back against the wall and crossed his ankles.
“What I’m going to do instead is ask you and Lowerson to delve into his history with a fine-toothed comb. I want to know every little misdemeanour, every time he cheated the tax man, every wife, girlfriend, husband, boyfriend or sheep he’s ever had.”
Phillips laughed, then promptly choked on a piece of stir-fry chicken.
“I’d like to know how Henderson can afford a brand new electric BMW, handmade shoes and a fat Omega watch, on his salary. While you’re at it, I want you to look at Victor Swann’s finances, because I’m damned if I know how he could afford to live like Midas on a valet’s salary.”
“I smell a rat,” Phillips agreed.
“We’ll get onto it first thing,” Lowerson said, thinking of the old man’s penchant for fine things. “Do you think they were on the fiddle?”
“We’ll find out,” Ryan muttered, then nodded at the sixth photograph.
“Charlotte Shapiro is the head gardener.” They looked at the attractive face of a fifty-something blonde. “She doesn’t spend much time up at the main house because the gardening staff have their own digs and an extensive nursery. She tends to park her car in the staff car park then go for a wander through the grounds toward wherever she’s working that day. She has a team of six staff who tend to the formal gardens around the house and access to contractors whenever she needs them.”
“She looks like the outdoorsy type,” Phillips remarked, with a wink for Faulkner. The other man blushed hotly and shuffled in his seat.
“She’s a very nice woman.”
All conversation stopped as the team turned to Faulkner, who looked to Phillips for divine intervention.
“Too late now, son,” Phillips held his hands up.
“Well, um, I happened to get chatting with her yesterday morning. She was telling me a bit about the types of coniferous trees they have in the forest.”
“Much as I hate to remind you, Tom, your woodland nymph could be a killer,” Ryan pointed out.
“Aww, now, don’t go breaking the man’s heart before he’s had a chance to show her the stars,” Phillips grumbled. “She might not be a killer, after all.”
“Gee, thanks,” Faulkner chuckled and Ryan resumed their conversation.
“Charlotte Shapiro knows the grounds like the back of her hand. She says she didn’t see Alice Chapman at all yesterday, only when she found her body at seven-fifteen this morning.”
“What was she doing, hanging around the burn, anyway?” Lowerson demanded.